The Big Book of Orgasms

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I’m staring at the ceiling of his guest room when he knocks. Illuminated by the streetlight’s glow, he’s pale, almost ethereal. I’d say he’s like a ghost, but I know better what those feel like, now.

  “You awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  I scoot over toward the wall and lift the covers. He hesitates for just a second, as if it’s not what he came here for in the first place. We both know better. Finally, he pads across the room and slides in beside me, close but not quite touching.

  He’s dressed in a T-shirt and boxers, both black. Because even in his pajamas, he’s mourning.

  For what seems like the longest time, we both stare at the ceiling. Sensing motion in my periphery, I turn my head to look at him. He’s on his back, too, gazing at me. He lifts his arm in silent invitation.

  It’s a dangerous proposition. We’ve been lovers before, but it’s been a long, long time. There’s still a little raw spot in my heart from when he ended it, and with everything else we’ve been through today, I’m afraid to tear it open. I’m more hurt, though, and more scared. More needing of comfort—both to give it and to take it.

  I curl into him and give a little shudder at the warmth, sighing against him. Wrapping his arm around me, he pulls me in nice and close and strokes the spot above my hip where my tank is riding up. It feels good, relaxing and familiar.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and my hand on his heart. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Nah.”

  He shifts beneath me and widens the arc of his palm on my side. When he tips my head up, fingertips beneath my chin, I know what I’m going to find.

  Him. Staring at me. His mouth so close.

  It’s a question; he’s clearly giving me a choice. But there’s something so achy and needy in him, something echoed so deeply inside of me that I know I’m going to give this to him. I’m going to give it to us both.

  I palm the side of his neck and breathe out a low sigh of relief when my fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. It’s as soft as I remember, as thick. Seconds later, his head dips, lips brushing mine. For the first few passes, it’s tentative.

  And then it’s not.

  His chest seems to crack open, his groan leaking out around the edges as he opens his mouth to mine, begging entry, and I give it to him willingly. The kiss is teeth and tongues and a shaky feeling that escalates so quickly. Before I know it, he’s on top of me, panting, sucking hard at the skin beneath my ear, and I’m grasping at him, pulling him close. I spread my legs and he slides himself between them, shoves his hard-on against my hips and I feel it everywhere.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pawing, pushing fabric up and away. Together, we get my shirt off and his, and when we’re skin to skin, it’s electric. He nips his way up my throat as I arch my head back. “I just…I need to…”

  I groan. “I know.”

  “I need to feel alive.” He palms my breast, shaking, but then finds a reserve of strength as he buries his face against my hair, grinding hard. “I need to come.”

  “I know.”

  It should make this feel cheap, having it so plainly stated, but it’s the opposite. The numbness of the past few days all seeps away, the door I’ve barred so tightly against my grief suddenly holding itself closed, and I’m all movement and sensation and life. I’m alive.

  We’re both still here.

  “Come on.” He hooks his fingers in my shorts and pulls them down. My underwear is next and his, and then he’s sliding, naked and hard against the slick-hot space between my legs. With one hand grasping tightly to my hip, he growls and lifts and flips me over. I find my balance on all fours and drop my head as he nudges my inner thigh. “Wider.”

  I shift as he asks, sucking in a deep breath as his fingers are replaced by his lips. It’s a strange position for him to go down on me, but no one’s ever eaten me the way he has, like my pussy is the only thing standing between him and starvation. Tipping his head, he slides tongue and lips along my skin and to my clit, nose against my opening and hot breath everywhere. I tense and feel. When my limbs all start to shake, he kisses back up to the spot between my cunt and my asshole, where he pauses, then rises.

  Hot cock pressed against my backside, he rubs my hip with a gentleness I wouldn’t have expected. I look over my shoulder at his lack of words to find him chewing on them, thoughts everywhere on his face, eyes burning again. He slides his fingertips down my thigh.

  “I want…I want to fuck you.”

  The words seem to stick in his throat, but once out on the air, I appreciate their bluntness. He purposely didn’t say he wanted me. I don’t know if I want him either. But fucking…fucking would be okay.

  “Yeah.” I tilt my head toward my suitcase. “Side pocket.”

  He finds the condom I keep there just in case and rolls it on. Once covered, he slides the head of his cock up and down the length of my sex and it feels so good. I drop to my forearms and push my forehead to the mattress, arching my back for the moment when he takes me, fills me, fucks me.

  When it comes, it’s long and slow, one gradual slide of his body into mine. And that connection is nothing—it’s everything.

  He fucks like a man possessed, hard full strokes that rock the bed and my body, and as he gets close, he’s all filthy words and need, tensing, and then his hand on my shoulder. “Touch yourself.”

  I don’t hesitate. Fingers on my clit, I bite my lip and push back into him. He holds my hips to steady me.

  When he says, “I need this,” it’s with a choking sound.

  It shoves me over. “Take it.” I repeat it over and over, “Take it, take it, take it.”

  And I take everything I can. Comfort. Pleasure. Companionship and connection.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever come so hard or felt such release.

  He fucks me through it, but when he comes, it’s silent. I look back at him to see his head thrown back, shoulders tense as he pulls my ass flush against him, emptying. Pouring out grief and the feeling that some part of us has died as well.

  It hasn’t.

  As he drops to the side and pulls me close, breathing hard through the afterglow, I know.

  It hasn’t.

  And it won’t.

  THERE

  Sommer Marsden

  These stolen fifteen minutes are flying by. I have a mouth full of his cock and his warm pout is latched onto my slick pussy. Breaking free, I gasp, “There!”

  I swallow him down, feeling his hips thrust forward just enough to get more friction, not enough to be rude. These lunchtime throw-downs in his van are the stuff legends are made of—hot, dirty, sweet, salty. All the flavors of fucking are represented. I mean, how clichéd are we: van sex?

  Chad moves his mouth a hair to the left and I moan, the vibration surely shuddering through his body. “There?” He’s teasing me, that ass.

  “No, not there. Over. Stop torturing me.”

  I feel his finger slip into me, flex in my wet depths, tickle at a tender bundle of nerve endings. My nipples peak, and I touch the tip of his cock with the tip of my tongue so he groans this time.

  “There?” This time he moves his tongue just above my swollen clit. He’s so fucking close and yet not there.

  “Hurry, we’re running out of time.”

  His tongue drags slow and lazy over the sweetest spot where that little knot of flesh is most sensitive. My body sings, my cunt flexes, my heart pounds. I suck the tip of his cock hard enough to make him hiss. We’re locked in this grappling sixty-nine on an old blanket, and we have maybe seven minutes left.

  This is better than a quick coffee or a fast-food burger. This is the kind of sustenance that gets me through the day.

  “How about…there ?” Chad licks my inner thigh and shoves another finger inside of me. He moves the two in unison and my body grows warm from head to toe despite the frigid air in his cavernous van.

  “No…but…”

  “Hmm, no,” he says, ignoring
me. His lips skim my thighs. Even as he kisses me so gently it’s a mind-fuck, he thrusts so that my mouth and throat are full of his shaft. The musky wood and spice scent of him fills my head.

  I can’t speak, so he drags his soft lips over me enough to make me dance. I’m his puppet, his plaything, the girl he can drive mad with a lick and a smile.

  “How about there, Shelby?” he whispers, and captures my clit with his lips. He’s serious now; we really are running out of time, so I get his eager wet attention. He’s fucking my mouth hard enough to make me damn near mindless but not hard enough to hurt me. I arch up to meet his mouth with my sex, one hand pinning his head hard as my orgasm rockets toward me. Pink and white lights swirl beneath my closed lids. My head is full of my own heartbeat. I trap him and he gives me what I need, finally.

  “Yes, there,” I sigh, but no one can understand my utterance. Not even me.

  I come just as he comes; we’re good that way. We synch up nicely when we can. We’ve had lots of practice with our pilfered moments of perversity. Chad’s cries are shouted against my skin, my pleasured sounds cut off by the stopper of his cock in my mouth. We roll together. My face and hair are sticky-streaked. I lick the tip of him once more just to watch the shiver that bolts through him from my mouth on that sensitive skin.

  Our laughter is quiet and conspiratorial. It’s a rush to get dressed, a dash back to work, my body still pounding from release and stolen moments.

  FORCED ORGASMS

  Shoshanna Evers

  He’d been turned on by images of women all tied up since his teenage years. As far as Ivan was concerned, his sexual predilection toward kink was as natural as his lesbian friend stated her orientation had been; his had been ingrained since puberty. No trauma made him this way. No Freudian issues to resolve.

  It was just that if he was going to get hard, the girl had to be tied up. And if the pornography he was viewing ended with the girl tied up with a vibrator still buzzing away in her pussy, he’d practically come in his pants. Forced orgasms. His fetish. His kink.

  Tonight, he was paying to make his dream a reality, a reality that would last for exactly one hour once his doorbell rang. The escort service called the woman “Genevieve,” although as far as Ivan could tell she seemed more like a Jenny trying to look worth her sticker price.

  She seemed very friendly, and calm, although Ivan was looking forward to seeing the desperation on her face he knew the evening would bring. Was that sick? Probably. But she’d love it. At least the first fifteen minutes of it, anyway. His cock hardened, straining against his slacks.

  “Jenny,” he said cordially, kissing her cheek. She didn’t correct him on the name. Maybe he’d been right about her, or maybe she was smart enough not to start off an evening with a client by correcting him. Maybe she’d let him call her whatever he wished.

  “Take off your clothes, please,” he said.

  Jenny gave him a saucy smile and pulled her expensive dress over her head, leaving a matching black-andred-lace brassiere and thong.

  “Beautiful,” he said appreciatively. “But those need to go, too.”

  “Wow, you get right down to business,” she said, laughingly complying. “I’m surprised.”

  She sat down on the couch, but he shook his head.

  “I have a special chair for you. Why are you surprised?” He nodded over to the corner, to the bondage chair he’d pulled out of the garage and shined with leather cleaner and stainless steel polish. The chair had cost more than she had.

  “I was told you weren’t interested in sleeping with your escorts,” Jenny said, eyeing the leather straps attached to the chair, but getting up from the couch, stepping over to the chair, and sitting in it anyway.

  “No, I’m not,” he replied. It was the truth, after all. “I just want to watch you be pleasured with my vibrator, over and over. Does that sound good to you?”

  She laughed. “Sure! I never get to come during these—” Jenny stopped speaking suddenly, as if someone had pressed the mute switch on her. More likely, she’d remembered a rule the escort service had given her. Ivan imagined it went something like: Don’t complain about other clients. It makes the man you’re with now feel like he’s not the only one, and it makes him wonder if you’re complaining about him to the other men.

  “Good. Spread your legs.”

  Jenny complied, spreading her thighs wide so that her ankles touched the straps on the bottom of the chair. Ivan made quick work out of restraining her.

  “Hands behind your back, gorgeous,” he said, and she obeyed, silent now. He used fuzzy red cuffs to handcuff her wrists. The cuffs looked cute and playful, but their bondage was real.

  “I’m going to make you come until you pass out. Does that sound like a good idea?”

  She laughed again, and Ivan recognized it for what it was—nerves. “Yes. I’m yours for the next…” she looked up at the large metal clock ticking above the fireplace, “forty-three minutes.”

  Ivan stifled a groan of desire. Forty-three minutes. Forty-three minutes to watch her come, and come again, and squirm, and scream. Then beg…and beg. And come again.

  The memory of this evening would fulfill all of his masturbatory fantasies for the rest of his life. Which was good, because after this he’d probably be cut off from this particular escort service.

  Ivan plugged in the long white vibrator and pressed the thick round head against her pussy. Frowning, he dipped his fingers down and spread her nether lips until the vibrator nestled directly against her clit. His fingers came back shiny.

  “This turns you on?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” she admitted shyly.

  He flipped the switch to LOW and watched her face and her reaction as the vibrator buzzed to life.

  “How’s that feel?”

  “Amazing.” She tilted her head back, a look of ecstasy on her face.

  Ivan settled on the couch opposite her and stroked his cock through his pants. He was so hard now it was almost painful. The restraints, the sight of her open mouth, lips contorted with pleasure…

  “Oh god, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she gasped, and her body shuddered, spasming as the orgasm wracked her body.

  “Good,” Ivan said. “You’re going to come again. I bet your little pussy feels very sensitive right now, doesn’t it? And you can’t close your legs. Can’t get away.”

  He unzipped his pants, pulling his cock out, stroking his length as he watched her writhe under the Magic Wand. Her muscles clenched and unclenched, and she moaned, but she was grinding her hips against the vibrator, melting into her second orgasm.

  “I don’t want to get away,” Jenny said. “More. Give me more.”

  “You’ll have all the orgasms you can handle,” he promised. This woman was his fantasy come true. Would she still be saying the same thing in half an hour, when her tender clit had popped out of its hood and her pussy felt like it was on fire? When her womb ached from the constant orgasms, and her thighs were tired from trying to close and being unable to?

  Ivan leaned back and stroked himself harder, almost reaching his peak when she came again, shouting at the top of her lungs.

  He looked up at the clock. She was his for another twenty-eight minutes. He flipped the vibrator on HIGH, relishing her shocked expression, and pulled on his cock relentlessly, catching his come in a towel he kept handy for just that purpose. Breathless, he sat back and watched as the vibrator continued to buzz. He could come again if he watched her.

  When she finally passed out from the overstimulation, his own orgasm hit him so hard he felt sick, as if someone had kicked him in the testicles.

  He uncuffed her, unstrapped her and pulled her onto the carpet next to him where they both lay panting and sore. Tenderly, he wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

  She turned to him, groggy-seeming, as if all the screaming had kept her from being fully oxygenated.

  “I’d like to call on you again,” he said softly, “if I may.”<
br />
  “I’d like that,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  BLUE JEAN BABY

  Eleanor Proctor

  I slide my left leg into the stiff, dark new pair of designer jeans, then the right, easing them up and up and up. This is my first time wearing them, but I know they’ll fit, because I own at least a dozen identical pairs—I’m not sure exactly how many. I haven’t counted lately. Whereas some women wear wrap dresses or miniskirts to feel sexy, for me, it’s jeans, with a twist—no panties. I almost always wear panties, either lacy or light, sheer silk, with a skirt or dress, but when I slip into a pair of jeans, it’s all about how they feel pressed right up against my pussy.

  I slide the metal button into its hole, zip them up then admire myself in the mirror. I’m not a tomboy by any means, but I feel sexiest in jeans like this, and can either dress down in a soft, slouchy T-shirt or dress them up with a top. Today I choose a red silk blouse that falls to just below my elbows, and leave it unbuttoned. If I were wearing a bra, you’d be able to see it peeking out, but why bother with a bra when I’m not wearing any panties? I like to match, after all. My silver dragon necklace dangles between my breasts. I add my favorite black heels, the ones so perfectly worn they wrap around my feet like they were made for them, grab my clutch purse, and I’m off. I drive to my favorite mall, about thirty minutes away, blasting my favorite old-school heavy metal bands, Poison and Guns N’ Roses, as I go. I make sure to shift in my seat as much as possible, so the seam presses against me, right where it belongs, the arousal building slowly. I’m the kind of girl who always uses her vibrators on the lowest setting, preferring a gradual rising tension that eventually detonates through my limbs rather than a rocket’s fast blastoff before its blaze of glory, so the rubbing and rocking, the pressure and friction of a perfect pair of jeans suits me just fine.

  Plus, with a dress, if I were to go commando, I’d always be afraid of it flying up and revealing just a little too much. I’m a more subtle kind of exhibitionist; I like to make anyone who might be watching work for his reward. If someone cottons to my ecstatic way of walking, it can be our naughty little secret; if everyone knows, it’s less of a thrill. I park the car, deliberately avoiding the rush near the entrance to give me a greater distance to walk. I can’t speed walk in my heels, but again, that’s the point. I want to savor every step, feel the jeans encasing me, clinging to me, letting my most private parts know they are in for a reward if they can just be patient enough.